Noontide
by Silanus
Summary: After the death of the Great Leader, the Leadership carries out a great purge; dealing a swift end to all those who would threaten the regime of the New Great Leader. Comrade Marsh, an unwilling power player in this Regime, is their latest victim. Confined to a cell and with the threat of death hanging over him, Stan reflects on his life and how he got himself into this position.


Stan knew something was wrong.

He knew it from the looks he had gotten at the Bureau, the way people hushed their voices as he passed, the way the numbers of calls and visitors he received decreased over the past week till none had came for him at all. He knew something was up, and he knew it wasn't good; for him at least.

But he couldn't be too sure, no one could. No one knew the motives of the Party or of the Leadership. Things may seem one way one day but will seem completely different another day. A minister may go from being on the way out to on of the way in all in a moments notice. Reshuffles were endless, appointments were so numerous that it seemed you couldn't hold a position for more than a few hours.

But none of this applied to Stan.

His position was solid. It had to be. He was sure that the Leadership couldn't touch him, even though he knew many wanted to, craved to. Comrade Marsh would forever hold a special place in the heart and minds of the People and the Party, after all he was Comrade Marsh: the veteran of the Great Northern War, the fearless revolutionary who languished three years in a cell for the Party, the propaganda lifeblood of the Movement. He was their poster boy, their eternal photo-op, the was the all-American GI-Joe that gave the Party it's legitimacy in the beginnings of the Movement. He was the closest friend of the Great Leader, one of the three heads of Hydra; the Party flowed through his veins like blood.

But again… he couldn't be sure. He couldn't be sure of anything anymore. Not since Gregory keeled over the podium clutching at his heart, burning a hole through everything the Party had achieved. Not since the purges, the trials, and the executions. Not since DeLorne took the reins of the Leadership. The Party had a new Great Leader, and the Great Leader had a new vision for the Party, for the Movement, and for the State. And Stan wasn't sure if he was going to be apart of that vision.

After all he wasn't exactly integral to the Party itself, he was never all what he was cracked up to be. He was simply offered a rope out of the hole he had dug himself into. But as he came to realise, this rope just threw him into another, even deeper hole. But for a time it didn't seem that way. As they travelled the Western states when the Movement was but a babe, making speeches and holding rallies, inciting the People to revolt against the false god of Democracy and throw off the shackles of oppression and servitude… it didn't seem bad at all.

Back then it was just the three of them, the unstoppable Hydra that brought freedom to the People. It was only after that, after victory had been assured and the armistice had been signed that he knew his position in their little Triumvirate… he was the Lepidus.

So, like many times before, he heeded the uncomfortable feeling that settled in his gut. He trusted in what his subconscious was telling him.

Something was definitely wrong.

But, unlike his flight five years ago, he wouldn't run; he didn't have the time, the support… or the guts.

If something was going to happen… let it come. There was no escape. And even if he could, by some miracle, evade the men who were most likely stationed to follow him. There would be no place to run. He found that out the hard way. North, South or East… there was no regime that would protect him, they all wanted his head on a spike. His face was known by every official and he was sure no one would want to protect him. After all, he was Lepidus… and the preverbal Mark Antony had just fallen on his sword; even though in this case, it was actually Octavian clutching at his heart tumbling down the senate stairs.

So Stan carried on as usual. He did his duty, the little that was left to do. He cleaned up his office and set his affairs in order the best he could… he even removed the nameplate of his office door, dropping it in the trash on his way out. When he arrived home he not only gave his thanks to his driver as the old, rugged man dropped him off outside his residence; but he gave the man some four hundred credits as thanks.

Addressing the man by his name, not by the robotic 'Citizen Waters' that the Party language had dictated but by Roger; the mans first name. And Roger knew what this meant. He took the cash graciously and, clasping his hand over Stan's, thanked him with honest sincerity.

"You did all you could son" he said to him, "remember that".

But as Stan turned and made his way inside, his was utterly confused at what the man had mean't… what had Stan done? Was it his service on the front before the Revolution? Maybe those three hellish years spent in that miserable cell? But it wasn't like he had volunteered for either of them.

No, it was probably due to some misguided sense of gratitude the man had for one Stan's feats conjured up by the Propaganda Commission, some story concocted from the mind of Comrade Cartman, the Commissar of Propaganda; the Party's very own Goebbels and a very old friend of his.

Nevertheless, Stan put it to the back of his mind as he closed the door behind him. He took off his overcoat and made his way to his bedroom, undressing like his usually did he neatly hung his suit up and slid into some more comfortable evening wear; sweatpants and an old Bronco's shirt that once belonged to his father. Not knowing what the morrow might bring, he indulged himself for once. Cooking a frozen pizza like his mother would have made him and cracking open a can of soda, both were articles of capitalist contraband he had smuggled over the border. He spent the rest of the evening finishing off the last few cans of soda that remained in his possession, while watching equally outlawed comedy material as he did so.

He knew that those who'd arrive to take him into custody would find the remnants of this contraband, and all of the other outlawed material he owned, upon an inspection of his house that would inevitably follow his arrest. No doubt making it easier for the Party to justify the numerous charges he'd face in the days to come, even though most of them would be fictitious. And even though he had put on a brave face, when he went to bed, it all broke apart under the covers.

He wondered where he went so wrong. Maybe he should have befriended the corrupt leaders of the Party and entered into the political spiderweb of the Leadership. Maybe he should have thrown his principles aside and moved into a large estate, found a beautiful gold-digging wife, and took bribes from the greasy palms of all those who offered. Maybe he shouldn't of done his job so well, maybe he shouldn't have protected those who were correct in their public criticisms of the Leadership. And maybe he should have scampered to DeLorne's side when the dust had settled and said what he wanted him to say, signed whatever he wanted him to sign.

But instead, Stan had remained true to his word, true to his conscience. He turned away all those who offered him bribes and the gold-diggers. He lived within his means and spoke out in support of the weak. In doing so he indirectly cultivated his reputation for being exactly who the Propaganda Commission said he was… the lifeblood of the Party and the Movement.

Though all of this may of been a good thing while Gregory lived, it wasn't anymore. It made him a enemy… a rival. There were those who saw Stan as the better choice for Great Leader, those who saw the events of five years ago as some great political statement rather than the act of fear and cowardice it was. Stan couldn't even deny that the People probably saw him this way too, after all, DeLorne was the former leader of the Directorate. People tend not to like the man who wiretapped their homes, abducted their fellow citizens, and struck fear in their heart and soul.

Stan thought that if he kept his head down, openly supported DeLorne's new regime but refusing to make longwinded public statements on the matter; maybe, just maybe, he could weed himself out of the public position he held. After all, thats all he wanted. The idea of a quiet life appealed to Stan more than anything, the longed for those long, lazy days back in Colorado.

But no, his plan didn't work. DeLorne and those who whispered in his ears identified Stan as an enemy, and now it was too late to climb out of the hole he had dug. And there wasn't anyone to offer him a rope out of it. Well… besides Cartman.

Stan didn't realise it at the time, but he did now. When Cartman spoke to him a month ago, when he told him to get off his high horse and voice his support of DeLorne at the Party Conference, maybe he was trying to help him as he claimed. Maybe he was the rope. Maybe Stan was an idealist and perhaps he should have gotten off his high horse.

But it was too late now. And Cartman certainly couldn't protect him, the decision was already made; he probably wouldn't want to, not matter how he begged him, no matter how many times he reminded him of the good old days back in that quiet mountain town. It was too late now.

And for the first time in a long time, Stan cried himself to sleep; a grown man of thirty-two years, clutching at pillow and wishing away the hole he had dug for himself like a child afraid of the dark. The tears soon stopped and gave way to dry, shuddered breaths as he slowly calmed down. And soon, the darkness of sleep embraced him.

It seemed like no time had passed before the loud banging on his door roused him from slumber. Furious banging and yelling outside hurried him from his bleary, blinkered awakening and threw him into being well and truly awake. And to his misfortune he was right…

They had come.


End file.
